Hard to Starboard
by LawliPop
Summary: After winning passage on to the luxurious ISS (Imperial Steam Ship) Somniatis in a lucky game of Wicked Grace, Ferelden refugee Garrett Hawke saves the life of recently recaptured and amnesiac slave Fenris, unknowingly entangling them in a romance that may just be doomed from the start. (AKA the Titanic AU no one asked for).


Hawke had never seen so many stars.

Granted, on the road the past few months he'd hardly taken the time to lay down and gaze at the sky. The life of a Fereldan refugee turned mercenary-for-hire didn't allow for such luxury, and he wouldn't be the sort to indulge in such a dreamer's pastime even if it did. If there'd been spare time enough that lounging around gazing at the night sky was actually an option, there was definitely something more constructive to preoccupy himself with.

Alas, being stuck on a boat for two days did not leave him with anything more constructive to do. Oh he supposed he could have joined Isabela and Aveline for cards and a round or four of drinks - the money they'd won in the fateful game of Wicked Grace that guaranteed their passage on this fine vessel had seen that they could pass the entire trip inebriated if they so desired. Eventually he'd probably do just that, but for once it was nice to take a moment just for himself; to recline against the finely polished wood of the upper back deck, gazing up into the infinite night sky, and dream of a future that did not involve running from Darkspawn, losing sisters to tainted Ogres, or wondering if he could dig up enough work to feed his remaining family the rest of the week.

Things would be better in Kirkwall - at least, that was what Hawke told himself. Had he only to think for himself, he could have kept up his nomadic existence in Fereldan, leaping village to village, never lingering long enough to draw unwanted attention from Templars. But it wasn't just him, and he could not afford to selfishly cling to his homeland - even if it was his last attachment to his late father and sister. His mother and younger brother needed stability, and by the Maker Hawke would give it to them, no matter what it took.

Leandra Hawke had family in Kirkwall - land and title, even, that she had not deemed fit to inform her children of until just recently. By both her sons' insistence she had gone ahead several weeks prior, accompanied by Carver, to stay with them. Hawke remained in the Free Marches only to tie up a few loose ends from his last job (as well as secure a means of transportation for himself, but his mother did not know that last bit).

Hawke despised being apart from them, hated that they were so far beyond his reach that should anything happen word would not reach him until too late. He trusted Carver without question; though younger he was a skilled warrior, impressively capable with the cumbersome great sword he favored above all other weapons, and unless overcome by the childish inanity to prove himself a man (which did happen occasionally, usually due to Hawke's goading) he proved reliably levelheaded. Trusting Carver was not the issue.

Trusting Kirkwall, on the other hand…. Even with the Amell family connection, how could Hawke not feel suspicion over a place called the City of Chains?

Heaving a ragged sigh, Hawke scrubbed a hand over his face. He'd come up here to clear his mind, not bog it down further with concerns. It was supposed to be relaxing, wasn't it; looking up at the night sky? He couldn't recall who'd told him that. Maybe Bethany. It seemed like something she'd have suggested, because Andraste knew Hawke made himself sick with worry over his family on more than one occasion.

A streak of silver-blue whizzed by his peripheral, so fast and silent Hawke thought it a mere figment of his imagination until he hurled himself into a sitting position and watched the bright blur catch itself on the ship's guard rail. Hawke blinked rapidly, the strange light gone now and only a slender human shape remaining in its place.

_What in the name of Andraste—?_

All thought cut off when the person hoisted himself onto the railing and swung a leg over the side. Then instinct overrode all else, and Hawke was on his feet, making his way to the end of the ship as quickly but quietly as possible so as not to frighten the stranger into doing anything rash.

Evidently his stealth needed work, for Hawke was still a fair distance away when the stranger's head whipped around and oddly reflective eyes pinned him with an accusing glare. The first thing Hawke noticed, aside from the unsettling eyes, were the long, pointed ears. Suddenly the predicament made a lot more sense. This was no human, and despite the fine looking clothes he wore there was only one designation for an elf riding first class.

Hawke raised his hands in the telltale signal of submission. The gesture did not ease the wary tension in the slave's body, but he didn't scream or let go of the railings so Hawke took it as a good sign and tentatively approached. He did not speak even after he'd settled his hands right on the railing.

The elf stared at him for a long moment, until he seemed to assess Hawke would not interfere. Then he wrenched his gaze away, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath. He closed his eyes, slowly exhaled and— _nothing_.

Hawke smiled, emboldened enough by the display to believe whatever had driven the elf to the metaphorical edge was not enough to send him hurtling over the literal one just yet, and gingerly brushed the tips of his fingers against the nearest hand clutching the railing.

The elf flinched instinctively, and Hawke knew the only thing keeping him from wrenching his hand away entirely was the sight of the waves crashing into the ship some hundred feet below.

_It's not worth it,_ Hawke wanted to say; _whatever has brought you to this point, it is not worse than this fate_. But the words remained stuck in his throat, choked off by the suspicion that it was selfish of him to even think such a thing. Did he only consider jumping a worse fate because he would be the one to witness, and he was sick of the people around him dying while he stood by helpless?

Surprisingly, it was the elf that spoke first, his voice deeper than anything Hawke could have imagined. It was almost absurd, the low baritone from this slight, fragile-looking man, but at the same time oddly fitting.

"I do not want him to have it."

The words, as well, were not what Hawke had thought to hear first from the stranger. He expected anger - and certainly there was, hidden beneath a veil of resignation and self-reprimand. He expected to be ordered to leave, because really this was none of his business.

Hawke remained silent, merely watching the elf watch the sea. An ocean of emotion swirled in the depths of those green eyes. Hawke had always found elven eyes disturbing, bigger than human eyes and with acute night vision that made them seem to glow in the dark. Rather than unnerved, he found himself drawn in by this particular set of eyes, however, and could not look away.

"These markings," the elf continued at length, calling attention to the white lines in his skin. What he had initially mistaken for Dalish tattoos Hawke was now close enough to recognize as scars, slightly raised from the skin and imbued with a captivating blue iridescence. "He chased me halfway across Thedas just for them. I don't think he'd care if I died, so long as his investment was still in tact."

Well, if nothing else, that explained the melodramatic suicide plan. Whoever the elf referred to would have no hope of reclaiming his 'investment' if it sank to the bottom of the Waking Sea. Still…

"Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf."

The stunned expression on the elf's face alerted Hawke that he'd accidentally let the inappropriate flirtation slip out of his mouth. More incredible than the abrupt disappearance of his brain-to-mouth filter, the elf actually _laughed. _

Well, 'laughed' was putting it strongly, but the elf's lips quirked upward and a short, dry chuckle bubbled up from his throat – very obviously the laugh of someone unaccustomed to laughing. Hawke felt sorry for him - sorry for anyone to whose life denied such a simple joy. Things had been rough for his family ever since the Blight that lost them both home and father, but they'd still found ways to smile.

"My name is Hawke." Hawke inclined his head slightly in greeting. "Garrett Hawke." He waited, but the elf only stared at him. "You know," he wheedled gently, "it's typically polite to give your name during an introduction."

"Perhaps I see no point in an introduction, given the circumstances," the elf replied, his tone clipped.

Hawke studied him another moment before deciding, "you won't do it."

The amusement slipped from the elf's face as quickly as it had appeared, expression sharpening into an indignant glare. "What do you mean I won't do it," he snapped. "Don't presume to tell me what I will or will not do. You don't know me."

"True enough," Hawke conceded with a small shrug. "But the way I see it, if you were serious you would have done it already."

The elf's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the railing. "You are distracting me," he hissed. "Go away."

"Afraid I can't." Hawke ignored the little snarl from the elf and began unbuttoning his traveling cloak, a memento of well-worn druffalo hide passed down from his father. "I'm involved now. You let go, and I'm just going to have to jump in there after you."

The elf scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous." When that did not garner reaction, he added, "you'd be killed."

"I'm a good swimmer," Hawke answered simply, shrugging out of the coat.

"The fall alone would kill you."

Hawke peered over the edge. The waters were relatively calm, but that did not mean the depths beneath were not tumultuous and hungry to suck down any poor soul unlucky enough to try them. "It would hurt, but honestly I'm more concerned about the water being so cold."

A brief flicker of worry crossed the elf's dark features. He hesitated a moment before he asked, "how cold?"

"Freezing, I'd wager, even this time of year. You ever been through a Ferelden winter?"

The elf blinked at the sudden question, his mind still clearly wrapped around the freezing waters below. Hawke picked up on the slight tremor that passed through the slender body. "W-what?"

Toeing off his boots, Hawke explained: "we have some of the coldest winters around. I grew up near Lothering, that's not even the far south, and I remember when I was a boy, my father took my brother and me ice fishing out on Lake Calenhad. Ice fishing is where you—"

"I know what ice fishing is!"

Hawke raised his hands, contrite, though he didn't belief the snarled response for a minute. Just one look at the elf's bronzed features was enough to give his Northern blood away, never mind the obvious Tevinter accent. Hawke doubted the elf had ever even seen snow, much less been ice fishing. "Sorry. You just seem like, you know, kind of an indoor elf." Green eyes narrowed spitefully at him, so Hawke assumed he'd hit the nail on the head. "Anyway," he hedged, "I fell through some thin ice; and I'm telling you, water that cold, like right down there…" He shook his head, shuddering as he recalled the sensation. "It hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can't breathe. You can't think - at least, not about anything but the pain."

The elf looked rightly horrified by the description, the color having drained entirely from his face. His mouth dropped open when Hawke gripped the railing tightly and made to hoist himself up. "What are you doing?"

Hawke sighed heavily. "Like I said, I don't have a choice. I'm just hoping you'll come back over the railing, get me off the hook here."

The elf shook his head. "You're crazy."

"I've certainly heard that before, but with all due respect," Hawke pointed out, "I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship. Come on." He let go of the railing in order to extend his hand to the elf. The elf's gaze slid uncertainly to the open palm, large eyes flickering back and forth between hope and distrust. "C'mon," Hawke urged gently, as if to a frightened Mabari pup. "Give me your hand. You don't want to do this."

Several tense seconds passed where the elf weighed his options, and then his hand slid hesitantly into Hawke's. Hawke smiled, tightening his grip around trembling fingers. "There you go. That wasn't so hard. Can you turn yourself around?" He was sure he could pull the elf over this way if need be, but the effort would be easier if the elf was facing him, and the elf seemed like the type to want to do this himself anyways.

The elf shifted one foot, turning his head slightly to glance behind him, the cool night breeze sending his silver-white hair into disarray. "Fenris," he said suddenly. There was a little smile pulling at his lips again. "My name. It's Fenris. Now we are politely introduced."

"Well thank the Maker you've regained a sense of decorum," Hawke teased, rewarded by another of Fenris's short bursts of laughter.

With his hand clasped securely around Hawke's, Fenris allowed himself to be slowly guided around so they were facing one another, separated only by the railing.

"Good," Hawke encouraged, "good. Now just climb over. Slowly… There you go…"

Fenris was just about to raise his leg over the highest rail when suddenly the strange markings on his body flared to life. Hawke couldn't accurately describe what happened next, much less how; it was all a blur, a whirlwind. In the blink of an eye Fenris's leg somehow passed through the railing, and then he was falling, a panicked shout tearing from his throat. Hawke threw himself forward, gripping Fenris's wrist with both hands. Fenris's wide eyes brimmed with terror as they locked on Hawke's, and his legs kicked frantically, scrambling to find purchase on the back of the ship.

"Easy— easy!" Hawke tried to calm him, but Fenris only struggled more. "I've got you. You're going to be fine."

"Don't let me die, Hawke—!"

_Don't let her die, Garrett! _

A desperate plea he had no intention of failing twice. Hawke swallowed thickly, battering down old regrets and feelings of inadequacy, and squeezed Fenris's hand. "I won't let you go; I swear it. But I need you to work with me, understand?"

Fenris nodded shakily but obediently went limp. His body dangled over the freezing water, and while horrifying to think his life rested quite literally in Hawke's sweaty hands, Hawke only focused on hauling the elf up. The muscles in his arms strained against the dead weight - the elf heavier than his slender frame suggested - but a few good pulls and Hawke managed to get him over to the correct side of the railing.

"All right?" He asked, still holding Fenris's hand in both of his.

Fenris's markings flickered in response, and he cried out in alarm as his body pitched forward. Hawke caught him as he fell, but the elf's sudden weight made his knees buckle and together they collapsed in a heap on the deck.

"How is that possible?" Hawke murmured, eyeing the shimmering brands on Fenris's left arm, which had solidified once more. Fenris only winced in pain. "Do they hurt?"

Fenris clenched his eyes shut against the hand Hawke cupped around his cheek. "They—"

"What's going on up here?" An authoritative voice sounded from several feet away.

Footsteps approached, and then harsh lamplight illuminated them to a small congressional of two guards, a dwarf, and several nobles who clearly wished they were still lounging in the parlor. The guard holding the lamp leered as he spotted Fenris. "A bit far from steerage, aren't we, elf?"

The comment wasn't even aimed at him, but Hawke bristled. "If I wasn't mistaken, the mid-decks are open to all classes," he snapped. The guard only scowled.

"Is that him?"

Fenris stiffened at the new voice, fingers flexing into the front of Hawke's shirt before releasing as he was hauled bodily to his feet by the guardsman. "Looks like the one you described, lord Danarius. Best put a proper leash on him." With that, he shoved Fenris toward a gentleman wearing distinguished robes of Tevinter design. Hawke took in the voracious dark eyes and hooked nose and instantly disliked the man.

"Fenris, my pet." The man reached out, taking Fenris by the shoulders and looking him over for any sign of injuries - or was he checking the brands remained in tact? Hawke fought down the urge to deck the smug bastard and pull Fenris back to safety, because somehow Fenris in the arms of this man seemed more dangerous than dangling over the side of a ship. "You gave me quite the scare." His eyes slid over to Hawke, narrowing in distaste. "And _you_. Fereldan, are you? What makes you think you had any right to lay your filthy hands on my property?"

Hawke knew he needed to be smart. This was not Tevinter; Danarius's title should have held little sway aboard this ship. But the word of a nobleman would always be held in higher regard than that of a third-class nobody, and Danarius could see him locked in a holding cell below decks and jailed once they reached shore if Hawke did not play his cards right. And yet the words came spitting out of his mouth: "Fenris is not—"

"Please, master," Fenris interjected, head bowed and eyes lowered in the picture of subservience. If Hawke had not witnessed for himself the rebellious spirit that burned behind Fenris's eyes he would not believe it existed. That flame was doused now; the spirit collared. "This man did not attack me. He… He saved my life."

Danarius's gaze followed Fenris's as the elf glanced over to the railing where just minutes ago he'd contemplated ending his life. Fear dashed across his features briefly. "Fenris?"

Fenris did not meet his eyes - or Hawke's, who was subtly trying to get his attention so he could be clued in on just what the elf was doing.

"I was leaning over the railing," Fenris explained. "I'd hoped to get a look at the… the, ah…" His voice trailed off, the correct wording failing him, but he made a whirling gesture with his hands.

"The propellers?" The dwarf supplied, amused.

Fenris smiled – a perfect, practiced smile that did not reach his eyes. "Yes, the propellers. I had heard my master and Magister Alexius discussing how the propellers make the ship move, and I thought it so incredible I wanted to see them for myself."

Hawke's mouth hung open in disbelief, his surprise mirrored on the faces of the guards and Danarius alike.

"The propellers?" The one who spoke now was a woman, dark-haired with a vile twist to her mouth that soured her otherwise pretty features. She cackled as if this was the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard in her life, looking Fenris over with naked disgust. "He wanted to see the _propellers_!"

Color flooded the elf's cheeks, the tips of his ears even glowing faintly with embarrassment, but he continued with the lie nevertheless. "I leaned over the railing, trying to see, and I… I slipped. I surely would have gone overboard. It was lucky Messere Hawke happened to be taking a walk. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to safety."

"Well," the dwarf said, clapping his hands as if Fenris's testimony settled the matter. "The man's a hero then." He came over and gave Hawke a friendly smack on the lower back. "Good on you."

Judging by the way his focus shifted back and forth suspiciously between Fenris and Hawke, Danarius did not share the sentiment, but he conceded with a tactful hum. "Hadriana," he said after a moment, and the noblewoman came to stand at his side. She squawked in protest as he worked a jeweled ring from her little finger, then presented it to Hawke. "Something for your troubles."

Hawke just stared at the ring, not really sure if this was a setup or if the man was truly so arrogant.

"That ring is an heirloom," Hadriana cried, incensed. "It's worth far more than the life of some idiot slave!"

Danarius rounded on her, eyes blazing. "Are you questioning me?" Hawke didn't know their relationship but it was obvious Danarius held power over her, for she immediately backed down. "Go tell Varania he's been found." Hadriana did not need telling twice; she hastened away, heels clacking against the floorboards. Once she was out of sight, Danarius turned his attention back to Fenris. "As for you. From now on, you will not leave my sight unless commanded. Is that clear?"

"Yes, master," Fenris answered meekly. "Forgive me."

"We shall see."

With that, Danarius turned on his heel and started walking toward the double doors leading to the ship's main atrium. Fenris followed behind him, looking over his shoulder only once to catch Hawke's eye. There was gratitude in his expression, but also a silent plea for Hawke not to further involve himself in this affair.

It was a request Hawke wasn't sure he could comply with.

"Fenris!" Danarius called, expression close to murderous as he caught the slave staring back at Hawke. Fenris jumped and hurried after his master.

"Now wait, Magister," the dwarf spoke up. "This is the slave we've heard so much about - your most prized possession? Surely he's worth more than a mere bauble?"

Danarius sneered. "What, pray, would you suggest as recompense, Varric?"

The dwarf looked Hawke over, grinning. "Invite the man for dinner. Tomorrow night. He can regale us with the tale of his heroic rescue."

It was an appalling idea, but Danarius had no way to refuse without making himself look bad. If Fenris was so important to him, by all means he should be offering Hawke much more for saving the elf's life. Danarius smiled thinly. "That would be delightful. You'll sit at our table." He leered derisively at Hawke's threadbare shirt and torn-up trousers. "I trust you'll find something appropriate to wear. Come along, Fenris. You will attend me in my suite."

"Yes, master."

They made their departure, Danarius's hand coming to rest purposefully low on Fenris's back in a sign of possession.

"Incredible," Varric spoke up, after the guards had also taken their leave.

"Excuse me?"

"It's incredible," Varric said meaningfully, "how in the short span of time the elf fell, you were able to remove your coat and shoes."

The complete lack of accusation in the dwarf's tone relaxed Hawke, and he smirked down at the man. "What can I say? I'm very quick."

"As I'm sure all your lovers can attest." Varric held his gaze a moment, just long enough for Hawke to wonder if he was being accused after all, and then burst out laughing. "Andraste's tits, I'm joking. With a master like that, the elf would have to be stupid and suicidal to let anyone touch him, and I know he's neither of those things."

"You know him well?" Odd, because there'd seemed no familiarity between the two. Unless Fenris had been hiding it?

Varric frowned a little. "Somewhat. Though if you asked the poor sod now he wouldn't remember."

Well that was… disconcerting.

Before Hawke could pry, the dwarf waved his hand, dismissing the subject entirely. "Ah well. Doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done, and now it looks like I have a new ignorant fool to rescue."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "You mean me?"

"Of course I mean you. Do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into?"

Hawke smirked. "Come now, ser dwarf. Do I honestly look like a man who plans ahead?"

"Ho boy." Varric patted Hawke on the arm, steering him toward the double doors. "You're going to need more help than I thought."


End file.
